Baby fashion tips

Now I am not an expert on children, in fact, show me a child over the age of 9 months and ask me to guess it's age and even with leeway of a year either side I will probably still get the answer wrong. One thing I do know however, is that babies up to that point where they get all chubby and smiley (four months? six months?) all look like pissed off tiny pensioners.

Henceforth, if you have a baby, it might not be the best idea to dress it in tiny old lady clothes, for, as Kanye West would say, THATS SOME BENJAMIN BUTTONS SHIT RIGHT THERE.

Incidentally, do you remember that episode of the Simpsons where they take Maggie to daycare, and when they pick her up they are faced with a terrifying room full of staring babies, silent except for the noise of sucking dummys?

I went out to lunch with my friends and their two babies on Friday, and we chose to go to Giraffe, as it was a family friendly place (knoweldge gleaned from three years ago when I attempted to light a fag and was promptly kicked out. This was pre smoking ban so they were clearly nazis. 'Family orientated' nazis.). And how. Earlier in the day I had been plunged into Blursville, as the optician who a week previously given me a glorious exciting new world of details and colours via the introduction of contact lenses, cruelly took them away again as in my excitement I had worn them for far far too long and 'damaged a few cells'. So anyway, I enter Giraffe, and after stumbling slapstick style over about ten Buggaboos (prams, to those without children) parked by the doorway, I gazed around squintingly for my friends. All around me, like bobbing bouys in a sea of blur were these pink round wobbling blobs. Babies. Lots of 'em. Utterly terrifying. And noisy.

I would recommend a lunchtime trip to Giraffe for any girl feeling a bit broody. By 'eck, it will make you want to nip next door to Boots to stock up on propolactics sharpish!

Spoon Rage

And now for a matter of massive significance that will make you question how you see the world and everything in it. The economy? The war in Iraq? No, I'm talking about the free spoons you get from Marks and Spencer's foodhall.

As a central London dwelling deskbitch I often get my lunch from what my dear Mum called 'Marks and Sparks', and this usually involves some spoonable item. We do have kitchens at work so I could plausibly pick up a spoon on my way back in, but this would involve at least a three minute detour, which takes away from precious gorgeing time, and frankly, I get the rage when someone obstructs my path down Carnaby Street to try and flog me a charity subscription or ask where Oxford Street is, let alone any greater hinderance to face/sandwich interface. God knows how people go to the gym or shop on their lunchbreaks...

Well anyway, this terrible unrepentant greed coupled with the fact that I love a freebee, even if it is a small, black and made of plastic, means I inevitably end up picking up a M&S spoon.

So what's the beef? WELL. For some reason, these little spoons have been designed so they are slim and disproportionately deep for such a narrow spoonhead. What this means is that unless one is blessed with Angelina Jolie type lips, (and let's face it, my mouth is more like a letterbox made of flesh) you can't get all the stuff off the food with one mouthful.
This results in having to turn the spoon over to lick it, which can look inappropriately sensual if eating chocolate mousse, and disproportionately retarded if eating pomegranite (as it requires more of a flipping motion).

Usually I have the latter, which comes as no great surprise to my workmates, used as they are to see me doing things like falling off my chair or lying on the floor with my arse in the air taking photographs of tiny bottles of shampoo for powerpoint presentations.
Today, I had the mousse, and honestly, I think I might have to steal spoons from Pret a Manger on the way back in future as I turned into some terrible Nigella Lawson/Winnie the Pooh hibrid, 50% sexy, 50% a bear of little brain, 100% wrong.

I saw this clever little item, which got me thinking about how much you can do with a single lump of plastic, if you have half a brain. This is a toothbrush which has a dented back, so once you have brushed you can flip it over and redirect the tap waterflow so it becomes an easily drinkable fountain. It's not earth shattering, but it's simple, it's clever and it works. That's two points up on the M&S spoon anyway..

This is why you are fat.

A great, self explanatory website, with the best use of a full stop I have seen in a while.

On one hand, you will never want to consume bacon (in all it's many, many forms, from taco shell to mayonnaise flavouring) ever again, on the other it makes you question The Truth.
We're told that even minor things like M&S sandwiches and tiramisu are superbad for us, and yet people actually eat the things on this site and don't explode into Mr Creosotesque fireballs of lard, or simply drop dead of a coronary angina within a day.

Yeah, they are fatties though.

The Rock-afire Explosion - My New Favourite Band

..well, that and the creepiest thing I have seen all year. This might seem a rather glib thing to say on January 2nd, but I happen to be watching a tv show which compiles all the most popular Youtube clips of 2008. So actually I've already seen a pelican eat a pigeon and a dog having a wank. So there.

Aaanyway, from what I can gleam from Youtube and Wikipedia, the Rock-afire Explosion were an animatronic robot band (oh but of course!) that they had installed in lots of Shobiz Pizza Places across the US of A. I feel this demostrates both how seriously Americans take their pizza consumption experience, and how much damn space there is, that they could have a full sized robot band in every joint. And both these things make me jealous.



But yeah, now someone has funked up childhood nightmares, got robots to sing rude songs and put it on Youtube and of course the result is fabulous! There is quite a good Shakira one too you should check out as it includes cheeky inter-puppet banter.

Some places in America still have grimy fluff and latex covered robots to jerk around while you eat and haunt your dreams while you sleep, although with a new rubbish and more basic lineup. This is apparently because of process known as 'concept unification' which is a typically bullshit marketing phrase if ever I heard one, but thankfully one that has a hideous mid 90's video to go with it, which basically seeks to justify why a giant jerky Italian Chef isn't a weird choice of robot to put the kids at ease as they descend into obesity.



You might notice how I now am just linking things, rather than do my usual 'see it HERE'. Think of it as a supremely minor resolution for 2009. Aim small kids, avoid disappointment

The Yoof of Today

Call me naive and not 'down with the kids', but I thought eight year olds daydreamed about Bratz, the Jonas Brothers and gummy hairbands, not obese hippos sensually wallowing in chocolate to the dulcet tones of Terrence Trent D'Arby.

Wheres My Bees at?

This video is just brilliant - not only does it neatly tie in to an earlier post of mine where I wax (arf!) lyrical about the Blind Melon video featuring a Beegirl, but it highlights a very serious issue, namely that the bees of the world are mysteriously dying out. As someone who has been known to eat honey at every meal (on toast, in yoghurt, with brie in sandwiches, in tea yadda yadda) this concerns me, but as I also simply love saying 'bee', the prospect of never likening oneself to a 'squashed bee' or a 'bumbling old bee' or a 'dozy fat bee in a jar' is simply devistating.

The word 'bee' exudes fuzzy joviality and bumbling joy, it should not be associated with death and (some would have you believe) the destruction of the planet!

The Official SOB Guide to... Scones.

Scons, scowns, scooons, for some reason (probably because I'm consciously trying to get fit for a beach holiday so the bitch in me is subconsciously ruining all my efforts) has been consuming loads of them of late. Cream teas to be precise, and for those of you who aren't middle aged or massive losers like moi, a 'cream tea' consists of scones served with clotted cream and jam. Oh, and tea. But mainly cream.
In order to turn this losery negative into a hip ironic positive, here is the official SOB guide to Cream Teas

John Lewis - setting the standard for teas what are creamy, this was a perfectly nice scone, with a perfectly nice amount of cream and jam. The only downside were the cups, those little squat inflight meal ones you can barely fit a finger through the handle of, which made me feel like a big obese giant who should be eating air and carrots, not creamy buttery biscuitcakes.

Kew Gardens - massive scone the size of a child's head. A bit stale as it had been left out all day, but quite good value for money if you are after a full stomach and an excuse not to poo for two days. Normally okay amounts of cream and jam were just not adequate on this floury beast.

Liberty's - two warm scones with a delicious buttery texture eventually rolled up about half an hour after the tea. Marks subtracted for lateness, the frankly ludicrous £10.75 price tag and the fact that had I not nicked someone else's cream I would have gone wanting. *cough* greedy mare *cough*

The Frances Hotel, Bath - £7 odd quid for one average sized scone and an unrequested bit of lemon drizzle cake. The cream was plentiful, but not a clotted as in some places. One pot between five also lead to a secret battle of wills and nerves, of hearts and minds, of greed and stomachs. It would be fair to say R and I won that one. Marks added for the lemon cake and swiftly deducted again, as I felt compelled to eat the soggy citrussy bugger to get my money's worth.

Hopefully not to be continued...

Colindale - A Photo Essay.

As Oriental City is closing it's doors for good on 1st June 2008, R, the Bruv and I decided to make one last pilgimage to the citadel of all that is cheap and tacky and Chinese. Unfortunately due to a mix up we didn't have a car, so had to journey on public transport. This neccesitated a short walk through Colindale, a place so bleak I was moved to take a lot of photos on my phone, then faff around town for ages today trying to find a cable so I could share them all with you, dear reader.
The waiting room for the local cab office...

In fact, alfresco seating is very much derigur in Colindale it would seem.

This house has ideas above it's station. Colindalia? Nope, sorry love, you still live in an area which sounds like something you wash peas in.

Still, they have their pride in these parts. Don't want no foreign bins coming over here, nicking our rubbish... (kudos to the Bruv for that one)

The window of a long closed Bookies. I like how there is a bit of the base relief missing, like once someone lost a load of money and punched the wall in sheer RAGE. Colindale is kind of emotionless these days.

Yet another example of al fresco seating, this time outside Dixy Chicken. It's hard to show the true surrealist nature of this bench, but it was built either by someone with a Dali fixation or a spirit level that was out by about 45 degrees.

The sad fact is that when Oriental City closes, this will be Colindale's claim to fame. The Bruv was sent here after he trod on a dog in Thailand ('It was a black dog sleeping in the middle of a dark road. Really he was asking for it') It's proximity to Dixy Chicken is a bit worrying.

Who Needs Kievs?

I wasn't going to bother commenting on this, but then the editors obviously noticed and moved the two features apart on the homepage. Thankfully they kept true to Granuaid form and didn't correct the archive...

R.I.P Lucozade Clock

Ever one with my finger on the pulse, I only realised this weekend that the Lucozade Clock, that wonderful glittering sign that you were entering London, is no more.

It used to stand near where the M4 motorway became the A4 (I think) and for me it indicated not only the time, but the fact that my doubtlessly boring as hell journey was almost over as we had officially entered London (although residents of Brentford may disagree)

It made Lucozade look almost like a glamourous sexy drink to be enjoyed with your friends...in the Odeon Bar*, not the neon orange sticky liquid in the plastic bottle enjoyed by fat people and MEN who like to define themselves by their fizzy pop, that it actually is.

Well yes, as of 2004 it was no more.. I personally think it is a conspiracy, as even though it was 50 odd years old it completely overshadowed all the big posh skyscrapers that surrounded it with it's tinkling bulbs and time/date function. But then I think everything is a conspiracy, from when the London Lite seller doesn't offer me a paper to when I graze my finger opening a tub of houmous with one of those tricky plastic breakable tabs on the lid.

*and if you get THAT little reference then give yourself a kudos

A Rather Long Post About My Rather Long Sunday

I am very spatially unaware. This has proved a minor problem throughout my life, especially in dramatic scenes such as those where I run with arms outflug to greet a long absent friend and fail to notice things such as door frames or bystanders faces. I have also failed my driving test twice due to a complete inability to park or manouver a vehicle around any object smaller than a row of houses.

It was the latter that I was cursing myself about this weekend, as I was forced to take a nine hour round journey to visit my Grandmama on the National Distress (copyright S. Sculthorpe) /Peasant Wagon (copyright some rich cow I was at uni with).
Actually it wasn't too bad on the way up, I had my copy of Private Eye artfully wrapped around my copy of Heat, and managed to negotiate the blocked groaning bowels that is the Underground on a weekend quite speedily, although this did mean having to hang around the drafty 'departure lounge' with the usual collection of old people, students and lost souls. This seemed to go on for what felt like several overpriced-tea-fuelled hours as it would be fair to say that what I lack in spatial awareness I more than make up for in time awareness*.

I had to hop about in the rain for a while after disembarkment as 'Cirencester Taxis' turned out to be a bloke, who was busy,and who wrongly suggested that taxis pass the coach stop 'all the time!'. Londoner that I am, I have an inbuilt fear that anyone who hails a car on a faintly countrified lane ends up strangled with her knickers and dead in a ditch, so was very wary about using the old 'stick out your arm and hail anything that moves' technique. Actually this only seems to work if you are coming back from clubbing at 5am and accidentally wave down a police car to take you home, although this does mean a week as the subject of the neighbours' gossip.

Anyway, eventually I found a cab, found I could have actually walked the distance to the nursing home in the time it took me to find a cab, and went to see Gran. Usually when I come down I have, if not a relative (Spurs were playing so the relative was getting drunk in a pub) , then someone with a car with me, so we can bring a wondrous feast of non nursing home food, or even go out to a restaurant. Unfortunately the best I could manage was a cake that got a bit squashed en route and a pack of biscuits, so we were booked in to eat in the dining hall with the other residents.

Actually it wasn't that bad. Well, the air smelt of sprouts, not death, and it wasn't quite as One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest as I feared. I admit there was a moment of slight panic as I entered the dining room to be faced with about fifty identical grannies (and two drooling grandpas). It was a veritable immobile army of little ladies with cotton wool hair and pastel cardigans, but thankfully my little old lady (why do I feel very creepy writing that?) is as vocal as ever, so I was able to pick my way across the sea of zimmer frames to her table pretty quickly.

It is a well known fact that people over the age of about seventy have no tastebuds and consider things like pasta, rice and flavours other than 'salt' as deeply foreign and wrong. This was reflected in the menu, which was allegedly a roast dinner, but in actuality was more of a boiled mush. To be fair, quite a lot of the residents have the upper body strength of mice, so perhaps that is the reason that everything, even the chicken leg, was so completely overcooked that it basically fell away as soon as you poked it with a fork. I just kept thinking of those Japanese people who live to be 120 by stopping eating before they are full, and was then harrangued by my gran for leaving something that might once have been chicken skin but was now a load of blobby fat.

The pudding actually looked alright, a lemon meringue pie, but it was then suggested that I could have something from the Sweet Trolly if I so wished instead. And rather like a gameshow I had to choose before seeing the much lauded sweet-laden entity, and rather like a gameshow once I had decided I would indeed gamble on a different sweet, a large tiered trolly full of bowls of different coloured...stuff all topped with whipped cream, was trundled over by an over smiley assistant.
I plumped for the brown mush, which I hoped would be chocolate mousse, but turned out to be chocolate Angel Delight; the whole trolly actually turned out to be Angel Delight of different colours, which was a bit of a cheat. Then again, I hadn't had any Angel Delight in about fifteen years, so thought it would be a charming novelty. Which it was for about two mouthfuls until I remembered that much like Turkey Drummers and Spam, Angel Delight is a food of childhood for a reason, the reason being it is highly suspect in both taste and appearance. And in a room which contains at least twenty colostomy bags, the appearance and texture of the chocolate desert mush weighed especially on my mind.

After lunch was spent doing uninteresting (for the purposes of this blog) things like chatting about my recent holidays and family members, then Gran fell asleep for a bit and I read a Radio Times and saw all the tv I was going to miss that evening. Then she woke up, we had squashcake and tea, chatted some more, before I got a better taxi number, called a cab and paid £3 to be carted down the road to the coach stop as it was raining.

The journey home was less straightforward, for one, I was stuck next to a woman who insisted on having the light on when I was trying to nap, secondly the driver thought it would be nice to turn the coach into a veritable sauna, and for three I accidentally trod on the remains of the cake while trying to cross my legs. Then there was lots of traffic and I was distressed to see that the Lucozade Clock had vanished (will blog more extensively about that later). My sneaky plan to cut time by being dropped off at Earls Court then went slightly awry when some bloke and I were left on the edge of a motorway, in the rain, about half a mile away from the Station.

Oh, and then to compound my joys, when we did arrive at Earls Court, some c**tpancake had thrown themselves under a train and so shut off the entire Piccadilly Line on top of half the other lines not running anyway due to repair works *cough* laziness *cough*. I therefore had to endure a crowded long schlep on the District Line, where I was squashed in those seats that inexplicably face each other, trying to avoid looking at the winsome American couple opposite (well, ontop) of me, who smelt of donuts and spent the whole journey stroking each other and talking about toothbrushes.

After about an hour in the bowels, I emerged at Archway in yet more rain. On the upside my prayers were answered and the driver of the bus was not the same driver whose vehicle I threw up on on Friday night. On the downside, all my amazing acting practise and 'what? me? Oh god no that would be my twin sister. I've just been visiting our gran. Look! I have squashed cake and smell of sprouts and everything!' went in vain.
I eventually staggered home at about 9pm, collapsed, realised I was hungry, decided I didn't want to live to 120 and so made a massive pile of toast, and collapsed again. The Flatmate dived on the remains of the squashcake, I neglected to mention the foot-cake interaction, and instead lay back and wondered how much it takes to bribe a driving instructor.

*Frankly it would be no great surprise if I turned up early to my own funeral and bitched at all the mourners out when they arrived five minutes late as 'I have been DYING of boredom for the last FIFTEEN minutes'.

Foodstuff of the Day - Vegan Prawns!

Today I actually went to one of those vegan thai buffet places, that can be found, usually completely empty of customers, dotted around Soho. It was quite a fun experience, not least because none of the people who I went with were aware it was veggie, and that all the dishes were a charming variation upon the theme of 'soy'.

I have to admit I've never really bothered with soya meat replacements being a lazy unhealthy carnivore with a worrying love of Herza Frankfurters (although they barely count as meat). So I was greatly and pleasantly suprised to find what efforts vegetarians go to to make soya and tofu look like delicious edible meat.
At one point a friend and I were actually standing up over the buffet shoving bits of 'beef' in black bean sauce in our mouths going 'It isn't meat!' 'Really? No it is! It is!' 'When has meat tasted like watery mushrooms?' etc etc

But anyway, the most hilarious form of soy protein was far and away the 'tiger prawns' which were not only correctly sized and shaped, but actually had red bits painted on them to represent the shell of the prawn! They also bizarrely had the texture of prawn, and would be perfect, except they tasted like (and I quote)

"Not much."
"Hurrrh there is an aftertaste. Is it fish? No, nope."
"Interesting. Not good interesting"
"A flump that had been out the packet for a bit. But not sweet. A hard marshmallow that is not sweet"

Still, A grade for effort, vegan thai people!

Ode to Chicken Spot

I suppose there is a sort of logic that an ode to a chicken shop and it's £1.50 'junior spesh' should be a grime song.. while a song about a sweetshop could only be a bubblegum pop song sung by women dressed as children, chicken shops can only be GRIME and sung about by overexcitable young men who like to hang around in gangs and apparently ask for extra mayo

That said, there aint nothing wrong with a lickle bit of chicken every so often I don't think... I mean, it gives you bad skin for a week and you keep remembering that urban legend about the guy who bit into his drummer and this yellow stuff came out and it wasn't mayo but pus from a boil on the chicken's leg, but it is kinda tasty.

Never have the onion rings though. They will end up half digested in your bathroom sink. TRUST.

Braindead Biche

Sorry, slightly knackered and uninspired after a rather hectic weekend, but in recognition of Australia Day, which was errrrm, a while ago, here is a chickenburger shaped like the land downunder where women hurl and men chunder.

And here, is a photo from the weekend that I plan to blow up, frame and then us as Christmas cards next year. Behold! A bit of Toblerone on the floor of the tube. What composition! Observe how the nougart speckles are complimented by the pattern on the floor and the thatching of R's shoe. See how the shape of the chocolate is reflected in the triange of the upper right hand side! Note the perspective of the lines of the floor broken up by the triangle of chocolate, which points directly at the foot of the shoe!

How did it get there? It was the Victoria Line so perhaps someone travelling home from Heathrow got a bit hungry. Who will pick it up? What will become of it? Does anyone care? Who noticed it apart from me? Would they still remember it now? Could we apply these questions to our own lives, as we travel endlessly and annonymously on the tube?

There you have it folks, your life, summed up by a bit of discarded chocolate.*

*yeah yeah, shut up at the back..better entry tomorrow I promise

Photo of the Day - Mao Please!

- Darling, what shall we name our new restaurant?

- I know! Why don't we name it after the man generally credited with causing the largest famine in human history?

*pause*

- Will there be an exclaimation mark for comic effect?

Sometimes it's just too easy...

Amazon strikes again..

A Breath of Fresh Air, October 25, 2007

By	Greeze (Portland, OR USA) - See all my reviews

A refreshingly simple entry into the cookbook publication industry, this book brings affordable gourmet cooking to the masses by focusing on a single inexpensive and abundant ingredient. It finally answers the nagging question of "how much sugar does it really take to make my food re-edible?" It also teaches us valuable lessons about the beautiful and endless cycle of life.

Truly a breath of fresh air!....

23 of 24 people found the following review helpful:

At long last, October 25, 2007

By	D. Gilbert (Colorado, USA) - See all my reviews

Finally a cook book that tells you how to complete the human digestive process. After your meal has been processed by your body, only waste remains. "Cooking With Pooh" shows you how to take that waste and recycle it into delicious treats. I had no idea that pooh could be used in so many dishes! Every recipe is low in fat although they all taste like crap.

Why North London is Nice - Londis of the Gods

Now kudos to this Londis (Ferme Park Road for those who know or care) I went in the other day and counted FIVE different types of taramasalata and FOUR different types of Houmous. Not to mention the vast sections of veggie food, hundreds of different jams and breads with every concievable seed/grain/healthy crap in them.

Basically despite being outside Crouch End technically it is the most horrendeously typical Crouch End shop ever, but then so what? I like having to spend half an hour debating over types of felafel and humming over cheese with my fellow 'Enders!

What is quite funny is that although it is so very very Crouch, it has this delightful shopfront. Scotch Egg? Scotch Egg?! That is the lunch of a National Express driver, ('eh, if i put it on a little plate with crisps see, it's a proper meal.') not a polenta eating Crouch Ender who has existential crises over olives! I do quite like how it looks like a little face, and can only assume that whoever made the decision thought that too..tis harder to make a smiley face out of houmous after all.

The Biche Sells Out But Reveals the Cause of Her Baked Bean Phobia

When I was young my Dad had this album and I realise now it was the sight of Roger Daltrey sitting in cold beans with glutenous bean juice and slimy bean fragments all over his chin that did (and still does) make me shudder like a willowtree in a breeze and even want to vom a little.

Goddamn you Who! If it wasn't for you my daily vegtable intake would be far greater on average, and I would probably be super fit and healthy and running the London Marathon and entering Britain's Next Top Model (ssssh! don't ruin the dream) but nooooo! I'm decidedly average in most ways apart from my exceptional ability to go to the gym daily and still get fatter and fatter! (so continuing on an earlier theme, if I tell you you look thin, please hit me around the chubby face with a celery stick or something)

Oh yeah, in other news I am skint-ish, so am thinking of putting adverts on this page and then if you lovely fantastic sexy people click them I get money! (not sure how much or anything really, but the recent spate of birthdays, couple breakdowns and leaving drinks is hitting hard)

I dunno, tis worth a try. If they hideously compromise the Speeches of Biches Ideal, such as if they advertise - par example - guns, cakes, tories, christians, coke zero, I will take them off again, and integrity shall be gloriously regained!

Edit: Yeah I suppose you could say 'integrity has been gloriously regained'. It was more a case of me being retarded and not sure how to collect the meager pence I would have gained from having one small ad for weight loss pills on my site, so figured it wasn't worth the hassle.

Why North London is Nice - SAVE ORIENTAL CITY!

Oriental City (or Ori tal C ty as I think the sign currently reads) is in Colindale and is basically an Oriental supermarket with the most mental food court ever and a row of Hello Kitty and Oriental Crockery shops on the side. The Segapark is a games arcade which is pretty shit, except there is a mini bowling alley, and the casino is a room of slot machines.

THAT SAID

It is amazing.

The food court is a massive patchwork quilt of lurid photos of different dishes, from China, Japan, Vientnam and Thailand (Korea is shunted around the corner for some reason) and they give you portions so massive and delicious you either feel bad about leaving so much or you throw up on the side of the north circular on the way home (true!)

I doubt there are many other places in London where you can find a whole row of shelves devoted purely to different brands of soy sauce, and there is great fun to be had in pootling around buying random stuff with fun packaging and only working out in the car home what it actually is you are eating (jellies shaped as fruits, slimming tea, fermented soybeans and these little coloured balls made of sweet rice btw)

I was also veh impressed to see a white lanky Postman Pat lookalike barking orders to the shelf stackers in fluent Mandarin.


Anyway, THE MAN (a.k.a Brent Council) want to shut down Oriental City and this would be a terrible shame, not only to all the bratty North London types like I who like Dim Sum and collecting Maneki Neko and other bits of tat, but to the large East Asian Communities that live in the area who see it as a cultural centre and vital resource.

So yes, go sign the petition HERE and stop it being turned into a load of swanky flats. I think they should save it, then petition again to get it done up; not just buy new letters E, N and I for the sign, but actually put more shops in there because frankly there is a lot of wasted space and I was not satisfied with the range of Maneki Neko available.

Make a difference yo...

The Vinegar of Jesus.

In a moment of crushing boredom, I decided to look up Apple Cider Vinegar on the internet, after a mooch around Holland and Barrett made me wonder why it was so great.

WELL...

If you believe the internet, ACV prety much cures all your woes AND makes you lose weight by zapping fat or some shit. And I quote:

"the reported cures from drinking Apple Cider Vinegar are numerous: allergies (including pet, food and environmental), sinus infections, acne, high cholesterol, flu, chronic fatigue, candida, acid reflux, sore throats, contact dermatitis, arthritis, and gout. One reader reported that a shot of ACV saved him from going to the emergency room for heart pain. Apple Cider Vinegar also breaks down fat and is widely used to lose weight. It has also been reported that a daily dose of apple cider vinegar in water has soaring blood pressure under control in two weeks!

If you can get over the taste of apple cider vinegar, you will find it one of the most important natural remedies in healing the body.

As a wonderful side effect of drinking apple cider vinegar every day, we discovered that it brings a healthy, rosy glow to one's complexion! This is great news if you suffer from a pale countenance."

Hmm, thought I, I certainly have a pale counternance and a fat arse - maybe ACV, apparently Jesus in the form of sour piss-tasting apple brew, will be the answer to all my prayers!

So sure enough, this week I am testing it out. And not by half either, I figured to really get the most out of drinking a shot of 'orrible rancid piss every day, I might as well REALLY test it out. So I am eating a lot of taramasalata. And cake. Not together.

And no, the Jesus vinegar is not just for humans! Like the real Jesus himself if he had ever existed Jesus Vinegar loves all living things!

"Apple Cider Vinegar is also wonderful for dogs, cats, and horses. It helps them with arthritic conditions, controls fleas & barn flies, and gives a beautiful shine to their coats!"

Maybe I should try feeding some to the hamster, just to see what happens. He's quite a sturdy little thing - he accidentally rolled his ball into a puddle of bleach yesterday and is fine!

I wonder what Jesus Vinegar does to plants...

p.s How fabulous is that cake? I wish I was eating cake like that, opposed to stale slices from Happening Bagels. Boo